A Poison Tree

by J. E. Mayhew

  Kath sat herself down on a dining room chair. “Carol. Do you mind telling us all about that? It could be useful.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Nobody really expected to find the Collins family in the original family home but for them to have vanished without trace came as something of a surprise. Blake ran his fingers through his hair and sat on the edge of his desk. “Nobody knows where they went?”

  Kinnear leafed through some papers. “Licence check and electoral roll drew a blank. We’re running some other searches. I thought a door-to-door might get an early result but nothing. One neighbour thought they might have gone down south, another thought she’d heard a rumour that they’d emigrated to Canada…”

  “Thought she heard a rumour?” Blake muttered.

  “The rest didn’t know who they were.”

  “It was forty years ago, I suppose, Kinnear. Well. I suppose we cross them off the list of people pissed off by the Hunts enough to want revenge.”

  “Northwich,” Vikki Chinn said as she walked into Blake’s poor excuse for an office.

  “Pardon?” Kinnear said.

  “I couldn’t find any trace of Naomi or Mrs Collins at all. But there were two Collins girls, Naomi and Samantha,” Vikki said. “Samantha Collins changed the address on her driving licence four years ago. She was living in Northwich, then. I took the liberty of phoning her. She was hesitant at first, saying she didn’t have anything to do with her mother or sister. She hasn’t since she was sixteen. But she was happy to talk to us.”

  Kinnear looked at Blake. “Think it’s worth a journey out, sir?”

  “Yeah, I do. If Naomi Collins has been trying to spread stories about Hunt, her sister might know about it. Or at least know where she lives.”

  ◆◆◆

  Samantha Collins filled the doorway when she answered Blake’s knock. Her tiny house in Barnton, a quiet estate built around a village on the outskirts of Northwich, seemed way too small to accommodate this giantess. She had a spray of dyed black hair and tattoos sleeved her arms. The heavy eyeliner and long, black dress completed the goth look. Blake introduced himself and Chinn, showing his warrant card.

  “You’d better come in,” Samantha said, stepping back from the door.

  Inside the house was clean and orderly. The décor was strangely eighties, with red skirtings and striped wallpaper. Pictures of cats filled the walls. Samantha settled herself in a black, leather armchair and waved a hand to the matching sofa.

  “Thank you for your time, Miss Collins,” Blake said.

  “We’re just trying to get a bit of background on an old case…”

  “Drucilla Hunt?”

  Blake raised his eyebrows. “Yes. How did you know?”

  Samantha Collins gave a feline smile. “I read the paper. I heard about that poor girl and that there was interest in the Hunt case.”

  Vikki Chinn frowned. “I don’t think it had made the Nationals. Do you get a local Wirral paper?”

  “I do,” Samantha said, her face hardened a little. “Just keeping an eye out.”

  “An eye out for what, Miss Collins?” Blake asked.

  Samantha Collins turned her gaze on him and looked him up and down. “Developments,” she said. “I left Bromborough when I was sixteen, Mr Blake. As soon as I could get away from my so-called mother and that bitch of a sister, I ran and I didn’t look back…”

  “You weren’t happy at home. Was that because of your father…”

  “I was unhappy long before my father killed himself. Ours wasn’t what you’d call a perfect family. My mother was very free with her hands and my big sister took her lead from mother. They gave me a dog’s life and if my mother was picking on me, she was leaving Naomi alone. When she did pick on Naomi, then my sister passed the shit down the line to me right away.”

  “I’m sorry,” Blake said. “So, when your father died, I imagine things got worse?”

  Samantha Collins snorted. “Dad was out most of the time. Or working. When we did see him, we were excited. It was a rare event. But he should have been there for us more. He wasn’t. He was off galivanting with his fancy women.”

  “Your father was seeing other women as well as Carly Simmonds?”

  “Sometimes, he’d take us out with him. It was like being in a film and these women were so glamorous. Looking back, now, I can see why he did it. It showed off his caring side, the father figure. A man who cares but is tormented by his bitch of a wife. Yeah, there were many women. Simmonds wasn’t all that special.”

  “Then why do you think he killed her?” Vikki said.

  A smudge of crimson tinged Samantha’s cheek. “He didn’t. Why would he? He was a good-looking man, detective. There were plenty more pebbles on the beach.”

  “Then who did?”

  Samantha Collins paused, mustering her thoughts, getting the words she was about to say in the right order. “At first, I thought it might be my mother. She watched my father get ready to go out that night. He was packing a bag. Then, when he left, she did too. Telling us to be good. Naomi spent the whole evening tormenting and hurting me, but I couldn’t forget the look in Mother’s eyes. I was only seven but I could see it. Murderous.”

  “So you’re saying she killed Carly Simmonds?”

  “No, Mr Blake. I think she would have if she knew where Simmonds was or could have found her but a neighbour brought her home. She’d been drinking all evening. I don’t know who killed Carly Simmonds but I know Drucilla Hunt killed my father.”

  “Really?” Blake said. “By exposing the fact he was fiddling her father’s accounts?”

  Samantha shook her head. “No. She got him blind drunk. Drugged him with sleeping pills and left him in his car with the motor running and a hosepipe stuck through the window.”

  “You’re saying that Drucilla actually killed your father?”

  “Sounds incredible, doesn’t it? But we had years to look into it, my mother and my sister and I. We were obsessed with the idea. We found witnesses in the Jockey who swore they’d seen my father and Drucilla drinking together on the night he died. She’d promised to have a word with her father, beg for mercy. One of the lads at the Jockey over in Neston had supplied her with sleeping tablets. He could barely walk out of the pub.”

  “Drucilla Hunt did all that on her own?” Chinn said. “Seems hard to believe.”

  “She wasn’t alone was she? She had that idiot boy, Gerald Rees, with her.”

  “Why didn’t your mother go to the police with all this information?” Blake said, realising the answer as he spoke.

  “Our word against the Hunt family’s? How ridiculous would it sound? And would any of those witnesses from the Jockey come forward? No. Their silence was bought with money and fear. My mother became obsessed with revenge. She was psychotic and her rage was turned on us. She hated her husband but blamed the Hunts for his death. Somehow, my sister managed to push all the blame and focus mother’s rage on me. Maybe it was because I looked the most like my dad. I nearly died twice from her beatings. I started staying out, sleeping on friends’ sofas or bedroom floors when I was twelve. I went back to the house on my sixteenth birthday and Naomi held me as mother came at me with a carving knife. I managed to fight my way free and never went back.”

  “And Social Services were never involved? Surely the neighbours would have noticed all this going on,” Blake said.

  “Early on, a social worker called round but by the time I was a teenager, nobody was interested. The neighbours were just plain scared. I worked all over the country and ended up singing on cruise liners. I’ve been back in the country a few years now but I keep my eyes peeled for any news from the Wirral…”

  “You think your mother and sister are still there?”

  “They won’t have moved far…”

  “We couldn’t trace them at all. No driving licence or council tax in their name.”

  Samantha shook her head. “Neither of them drive. My mother reverted to her maiden name. Naomi too
k it on, too. She even took my mother’s middle name. It might be worth searching for a Natalie Murphy.”

  CHAPTER 40

  It makes sense, now, sir,” Vikki Chinn said as they drove back from Northwich. Blake was glad to have the Manta back but his resolve to keep it had been slightly dented by the repair bill which, even though it was in numbers, could have spelt ‘sell a kidney.’

  “Natalie Murphy or Collins or whatever her name really is,” Vikki said, enthusiastically, “told us that the boxes hadn’t come in with the Hunt house clearance. Why do that unless you wanted to confuse the issue and slow down any investigation?”

  “It didn’t slow us down that much,” Blake said. “But I agree, it does look like she’s been interfering. She told the man doing the PAT testing at the charity shop that he didn’t need to see us about where the boxes came from. She said she’d pass the information on and then didn’t…”

  “Despite having plenty of opportunity to tell us when Cryer and I interviewed her,” Vikki said. “I bet you she’s at the bottom of all this.”

  Blake frowned. “Killing all of Hunt’s children, regardless just for a twisted sense of revenge? That’s an awful lot of hatred to keep smouldering for so long. Maybe it was just a perfect storm of events; Rees turning up at the shop, the shoes appearing too. She’d know that Hunt was in the hospice because Marcus had donated stuff from the house to the shop. All that might tip her over the edge.” Darkness crept across the landscape as they drove. Despite trying to appear dubious about the revelations about Natalie Murphy, he couldn’t shake a sense of disquiet. “If she’s right and Drucilla was responsible for Collins’ death, it’s just possible that she killed the other victims too.”

  “She ‘caught’ Cameron Lock, and she was seen at Josie Lock’s house around the time of her death,” DS Chinn said. “Fiona James allegedly killed herself but Drucilla was there. But if she killed them…”

  “Who killed her? I have my suspicions, Vikki. Let’s just focus on Natalie Murphy. If she thinks Gerald Rees had a hand in her father’s murder, then he could be in danger. And I want him alive to answer questions.”

  “Should we warn him?”

  “I’ll call Kinnear and get Murphy’s address. We could call in on Mrs Murphy on the way back.” Blake said, pulling his mobile out. “Kinnear can go and check on Rees, too.”

  ◆◆◆

  The Murphy house stood on a small cul-de-sac that ran off the A41 in Bromborough. Here and there small groups of children in fancy dress carried bags and torches. Every single one was escorted by an adult. As they drove through the village, they saw gangs of teenagers roaming the streets, some dressed as Clocky with white coats spattered in blood and alarm clocks on chains. Blake winced at some of the hideous zombie masks worn by the children. As they pulled up outside the house, volley after volley of fireworks exploded overhead. Blake clambered out of the Manta as screams and yells filled the air.

  “Jeez, Hallowe’en is usually mad but this is like the end of times.”

  “I think the Clocky thing has got out of hand, sir,” Vikki said.

  The garden gate was rotten and hung from its hinges. Everything around Natalie Murphy’s house was overgrown and the building itself looked in desperate need of a lick of paint. Blake rapped his knuckles on the peeling green front door and waited.

  Silence.

  Vikki leaned back, trying to see in through the front room window but heavy curtains hung at the sides, blocking any view from the door. Blake knocked again.

  “They must be out,” Chinn said.

  Blake frowned. “Wasn’t Mrs Murphy an invalid? I thought Natalie had to stay at home and care for her.”

  “True,” Vikki replied. “So, she should be in at this time.”

  Blake’s third knock was more insistent. “Mrs Murphy? Are you in? It’s DCI Blake and DS Chinn. We’d like to ask you some questions.”

  “Nothing,” Vikki said after a pause.

  Blake edged past her and pushed his way through the straggling bushes that grew in front of the window. He pressed his forehead on the glass, shielding his eyes from the streetlight so he could see inside.

  An old woman lay on the living room floor, a cup of something spilt and soaking into the carpet beside her. “Call an ambulance, Chinn,” Blake said. “Looks like Mrs Murphy has had a fall.” Bracing himself, Blake shoulder-charged the front door. The rotten frame gave a satisfying splintering crack but didn’t completely give way. A second rush forced the door wide and sent Blake stumbling into the hall.

  The first thing that hit him was the smell; a cloying sweet smell as if the bins hadn’t been emptied for weeks. It was ridiculously warm in the house, too. His hand grazed a radiator in the hall as he hurried to the front room and he snatched his hand away, hissing in shock at the heat. A thick layer of dust coated every surface and cobwebs billowed in the corners of the room as he knelt down to the prone old lady. She stared, glassy-eyed across the room, an old, pink dressing gown wrapped around her shoulders. Her stained nightie told Blake that she hadn’t been changed for some time. A livid bruise blossomed on the grey skin where her forehead had hit the ground.

  “Ambulance on its way, sir,” Chinn said, looking over Blake’s shoulder. “Is she…?”

  “Gone,” Blake said, rising to his feet. He dragged an old throw that covered a threadbare sofa and wrapped it around Mrs Murphy. “I’m no pathologist but she’s been dead a while.” He turned and listened to the silent house. The idea that Natalie Murphy might still be in the house somewhere, hiding, brought an involuntary shiver. He loosened his tie, feeling the sweat drip down his back.

  A large dining table squatted in the middle of the back room of the house, surrounded by bookshelves and an old record player from the eighties. Back in the day, it would have been state of the art, all wood veneer and silver knobs. A sound system, radio, double tape deck and a turntable all in one. In fact, Blake noticed, the whole house seemed frozen in time. If you discounted the dust, this would have been a very fashionable property, forty years ago, with its Laura Ashley wallpaper and dado rails. It reminded him of his own home. A mausoleum.

  The small kitchen smelt dank and rotten. An overflowing pedal bin and two bin bags sat by a fridge freezer and a sink full of pans and dishes. As if someone was too busy to clear up. It wasn’t years of neglect; Blake had seen kitchens where nobody ever took responsibility for cleanliness, and this had none of that ingrained squalor. But it looked as though nothing had been cleaned for many days, possibly weeks. He went back into the hall and headed up the stairs, pausing to look up and listen for any sign of life. The landing above stared back at him, silent and impassive. A light on the chairlift winked continuously at him.

  It was slightly cooler up here but the smell of the bins had crept after Blake, following him as he checked the front bedroom. A double bed that looked like it hadn’t been slept in for months lay in the middle of the room. Again, the décor was forty-years-ago chic; fitted wardrobes with mirrored doors made the room look twice the size and a miniature chandelier hung from the ceiling. Blake stepped out, opened the back-bedroom door and his scalp prickled. "Vikki," he called down, whilst slipping a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. “You’d better come and have a look at this.”

  CHAPTER 41

  The lights blazed at Gerald Rees’ house as Kinnear and Cryer pulled up outside. As soon as Blake had given them a brief run-down of the Collins' interview over the phone, they had hurried over to Rees’ place as instructed.

  “That doesn’t look good,” Cryer muttered. Kinnear said nothing, their heated exchange from earlier in the day still scalding him. But he had to agree. Normally, a house with all the lights on invoked a sense of comfort and welcome but now, as they got out of the car, it just looked threatening.

  “Not good,” Kinnear said at last, staring at the front door that hung wide open. Kinnear hurried up the path, not waiting for Cryer.

  Inside, chairs lay turned over. In the hall mirror, Kinnea
r could see multiple versions of himself in the spiderweb cracks where a shoulder or maybe a head had crashed into it. A light spray of blood reddened his reflection. Papers lay scattered on the floor, a cup of tea overturned had pooled its contents onto the dining room table and soaked into a copy of the Wirral Globe.

  “There’s been a struggle,” Cryer observed.

  A thump and a muffled curse came from the living room at back of the house. Kinnear stepped into the hall. “Police! Mr Rees are you all right?”

  A woman stepped out from the rear room and Kinnear just had time to glimpse the shotgun in her grasp before Cryer barged into his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. The hall erupted in an explosion of fire as Kinnear fell to the ground. Stars blossomed before his eyes and a sharp pain stabbed down his neck.

  Cryer stumbled backwards over him, pushed by the impact of the shot. He heard her head crack on the front door. Something hot scorched a path across his cheek. His ears rang with the noise of the shot in such a confined space and he tried to get up but Cryer’s legs were tangled in his. The back door of the house slammed and a cold draft blew the acrid, metallic smell of gun smoke further up the hall.

  Disentangling himself, Kinnear made for the back of the house, then looked back to Cryer. She lay deathly still, her arms outspread like she’d been crucified, her head propped up against the front door. The front of her blouse looked shredded and bloodied. He couldn’t leave her and give chase. Gently, Kinnear lifted her away from the front door and checked for a pulse.

  Blue lights from the road flashed through the windows and the thunder of boots on the ground followed them soon after. Three uniformed officers burst through the door.